I have done some stupid things in my time. I sold a north London flat that would now
be worth over £1 million and stayed out of the property market so long that I
can now barely afford to buy a studio flat.( I had moved in with a boyfriend,
of course, and hadn’t thought to keep my flat and rent it out, or invest in
another property. *bangs head*)
Yes, I am the sort of person who ambles through life with
head in clouds. A lifelong non-driver, I sit in the passenger seat in my own
little bubble, so that when my partner says, “An unmarked navy blue police BMW.
Impressive!”, I reply, “What BMW?” and he says, “The one that just whizzed past
with blue lights flashing, you can’t have missed it,” and I answer, “Err… I was
looking at tree over there.”
People despair of me, they really do. They despair of the
blank look I give them in reply to a question, caused by the fact that right at
that moment, an idea for a song had popped into my head, complete with the
first two lines of the melody and I was frantically trying to stamp it on my
memory for later. They despair of the way I always seem to misjudge what
clothes to wear for any outing, so that when everyone else is sensibly dressed,
I am wearing a patchwork hippy velvet coat and purple boots, and when they have
a sparkly party frock on, I appear in jeans and a jumper with a furry raccoon
on the front.
None of my financial or clothing misjudgements had actually
been life-threatening… Well, not until December 15th, 2015, that is,
when I made the biggest sartorial mistake of my life.
At least eight years ago, I bought a plain, rather boring,
thigh-length black coat from a charity shop. It cost about a fiver. It had a
furry collar, no hood, deep, hand-thrusting pockets and the back was
elasticated at the waist, which was just as well, as it had baggy armpits and
would have swamped me otherwise. It also had a half belt, attached at either
side, which was a bit of a painus in the anus, as I never knew whether to knot
it at the front, which was a nuisance every time I wanted to unzip the jacket,
or tie it at the back, a la French trenchcoat, whereupon it always came undone,
being a slippery fabric.
Unbecoming through it was, it turned out to be the most
useful coat I have ever worn. It was only very slightly padded, but it turned
out to be windproof, rainproof and season-proof. I wore it from January to
December. It was the coat I always reached for on the coat rack whenever I was
dashing out and the weather looked a bit dodgy. It was reliable, my stand-by. But… it was never flattering. In fact, I thought I looked a
bit bag-lady-ish in it. And so, when I found a smart-looking, figure-hugging, black
padded coat – Maine ,
from Debenhams – with detachable hood in another charity shop, price £7.95, I
bought it.
I took my old favourite off the coat hook and laid it on the
bed in the spare room. It was a hell of a wrench to part with it. I would go to
put it in the charity bag, then take it out again, feeling a strong tug of
attachment to it. In the end, telling myself sternly, ‘It’s only a coat,’ I
thrust it into the bag, but not before wishing it well and hoping it would find
a new owner who would get as much wear out of it as I had.
On December 15th, I had a concert and dinner date
in Soho . I was staying the night with my
friend in Camden Town Camden friend
lives a good 12-15 minute walk from the nearest transport and I was halfway
there when the heavens opened. It didn’t merely rain, it battered down, it
emptied the North Sea on my head, it
monsooned. And the rain went straight through my new coat and soaked me to the
skin. I was also wearing silver and black Skechers trainers that
weren’t remotely waterproof so my feet were soaked, too. I squelched onto the
bus, slopped out at Tottenham Court Rd, couldn’t find Dean Street as it was all
boarded off due to Crossrail works, plodded, shivering, all the way to Oxford
Circus and back, and eventually texted my friend who was already waiting at the
music venue and told me how to get there.
Three damp hours later, it was time to head home. I decided
to get a cab but, on a rainy night in London ,
there wasn’t one to be seen, so I got a bus and walked a wet mile back to my
friend’s. She made up the sofa bed and gave me a sleeping bag and went to bed
herself. I got in and soon realised that, in my chilled state, I needed more
covering than a thin cotton sleeping bag. But I didn’t want to wake her and ask
for a blanket, so, guess what this idiot did? Put my damp coat over the
sleeping bag and eventually drifted off.
The next evening, I could feel a cold coming on. By the 17th,
I had laryngitis, a sinus infection, a chest infection and felt so sick I gave
up eating. By the 21st, I was on a drip in hospital with a
temperature of 39.9C (104F), dehydration and suspected pneumonia.
I’m much better now, thank you for asking. But I have kicked
myself black and clue for parting with my old coat and have already given the
new one, the one that did nothing to protect me from the elements, back to the
charity shop. In fact, as soon as I was well enough, I was in there, hoping to
buy back my old coat, but it had gone.
If you see a size 14 vintage M&S coat, made of a shiny black
fabric with a half belt, a grey furry collar and a silver lining, grab it for
me, please. I would give anything to have it back. If I had worn it that night,
I know I would never have caught the chill that led to me catching the vile viruses
that nearly carried me off.
